


Mouth to the Jugular

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Impact Play, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Negotiated Kink, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Outdoor Sex, Rimming, Spanking, Vomiting, but the vomiting is only mildly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson fixes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth to the Jugular

**Author's Note:**

> Told you I'd get this one done fast. Happy 4th of July if you celebrate that. I'm going to continue the Teen Wolf trend of "why does everything happen in the lunchroom/woods/locker room" and "how did this person even find them????" Good news is we're back to smut (with a little bit of not smut in the beginning so not technically a pwp).
> 
> I'm a little sensitive to this so just in case any one else is, I thought I'd let you guys know that there's mention of someone giving someone a concussion, and it's not treated as seriously as something like that should be. 
> 
> Also, there's some slight pain play kind of things in regards to a character's balls. I wasn't sure how to tag that bc it's not like. Cock and ball torture. But it's there enough that I wouldn't want to not warn anyone?

Scott and Stiles had their backs to Jackson across the lunchroom, sitting with one of the new kids Jackson was too scared to actually meet in case that kid _knew_ about him, and Jackson hunched closer to the table. He didn’t know what Stiles’ game was, or worse, Scott’s. 

It’d been days and the bomb still hadn’t dropped—no jeering, no looks of revulsion, no _anything_ , and it all left Jackson with an ice block of dread crushing his organs. When the hell was his...his _problem_ going to be spread? He didn’t like this at all. 

He thought Stiles ignoring him was the worst, but Stiles openly staring at him with disgust, his judgemental gaze always fucking on Jackson, was way worse. He fucked up, he got that, but it didn’t stop him from feeling so worthless at Stiles basically treating him like a failure. But everytime he settled into that feeling, he’d see Scott next to him and remember that Stiles betrayed him and fucking told Scott and he was back right where he started. Feeling like the world was about to take a huge shit on him. 

Not for the first time that day, Danny snapped his fingers in front of Jackson’s face. Danny didn’t turn to see what the hell Jackson was glaring at over his shoulder, but Jackson was pretty sure Danny knew by now.

“This is getting to be a problem, Jackson,” Danny said plainly, and Jackson couldn’t make himself look at him so he turned back to Scott and Stiles. “What the hell happened between you two, because I’m getting whiplash.” 

Across the room, Stiles leaned in close to Scott to say something, and Scott immediately burst out laughing. Jackson grit his teeth and tried to keep the mantra of _Scott knows Scott knows Scott knows_ from overtaking his brain again. Stiles and Scott said loads of stupid shit that made each other laugh to one another; that didn’t mean they were talking about Jackson. And yet, his heart still stopped every time he heard their grating little fucking laughs.

“He’s a shitstain,” Jackson said, and he turned back to his food with quiet breath. 

There must have been something in Jackson’s face, because Danny made a comforting noise and leaned in close enough for Jackson to smell his cologne. Jackson stared harder at the untouched spaghetti on his tray and willed his hands not to clench into fists. 

“Do I need to do for you what you did for me with He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named?” Danny said, meaning that time Jackson took him out to parties to get sloshed and laid, while Jackson held onto his phone to keep him from drunk texting his ex. 

He might have been up for it, but Jackson remembered the last two parties he was at and he had no desire to test his track record. “No,” he answered tightly. 

Danny sighed, and Jackson saw Danny’s hands make an aborted gesture in his peripherals. “What about going to the Jungle, but stay sober and make fun of clubbing outfits? And if a cute boy makes eyes at you, you can make out until Stiles doesn’t exist anymore?” 

“On a Tuesday?” Jackson said instead of actually answering, but he’d finally looked up at Danny, and the slow grin Danny gave him in response made Jackson’s answer enough.

* * *

They didn’t go out until Thursday, and after an hour in no one had made eyes at Jackson, but they’d removed themselves from the majority to fully judge everyone, and Jackson didn’t really want to make out with anyone anyway. 

“How many snakes do you think that guy had to kill to make his shirt,” Danny said as he pointed towards the dance floor with his head. 

Jackson raised his glass and took a sip as he inconspicuously ran his eyes across the people in front of him, a move he’d had down for year. It didn’t take long for Jackson to figure out who he was talking about—the shirt, or lack thereof, was _that_ bad—and Jackson nearly spit out his drink when he looked down. 

“Look at his shoes,” Jackson wheezed out through his laughs, and he could tell when Danny saw what he did because Danny stopped breathing for a second. _Timberlands_. Pristine ones, even. 

“I bet you anything he’s a frat bro who raided a friends closet and came here to ‘support him’ when said friend came out,” Danny said, and Jackson rolled his eyes.

“A frat, Danny. In Beacon Hills. The closest college is a tech school.” 

Danny waved him off with a grin as if to tell Jackson to stop ruining his fantasy, and turned back to the guy. “That shirt does look good on him though,” he said wistfully, and Jackson wasn’t touching that with a ten foot pole. 

Jackson took another sip of his drink and scanned the crowed in front of him to look for his next victim of fashion. His eyes landed on a guy with nice pecs in a plain grey t-shirt, and couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t moved on when the guy wasn’t terribly dressed until the familiar dread in his stomach made itself known and Jackson realized he reminded him of Scott. Then, the guy moved closer, and _shit shit_ it was Scott, and he was heading right towards Jackson and Danny. 

A hand closed around his bicep—had to be Danny’s—and on some level Jackson appreciated it because he felt like he was going to fucking vibrate through the floor without it. What the hell was _he_ doing here? Jackson could probably figure out if Stiles was there from his heartbeat, but he was too scared to check and Scott kept walking closer and Scott knew and he couldn’t. Fucking. Move. 

Scott leaned over to say something to Danny, and Jackson couldn’t hear it because he couldn’t hear _anything_ over the blood rushing in his ears. The grip on Jackson’s bicep loosened, then fell off all together, and Jackson needed it there, wanted it there, because if it was gone Jackson would be there by himself. With Scott. Who knew. 

“I’m going to be over there,” Danny said softly, and Jackson found himself nodding tightly even though every part of him wanted to protest it. 

And then Danny was gone, and Scott was alone in front of Jackson. 

Jackson held his breath in anticipation, but Scott didn’t say anything. He just scratched the back of his neck and pulled his t-shirt down. 

“Are you going to tell everyone?” Jackson spat out after his lungs started hurting and Scott still hadn’t said anything, and Scott frowned. 

“That’s what I’m here about actually,” Scot said, and Jackson’s stomach dropped. Scott continued as if he hadn’t noticed Jackson’s discomfort. “Stiles doesn’t tell me everything, y’know, and I don’t tell him everything either—which is why I’m here because I don’t know what—”

“Get on with it.” 

Scott’s jaw clenched, and Jackson felt the urge to punch him bubble up inside, which was normal and almost wanted compared to the cold terror he’d felt since that party. 

“Stiles never showed me your texts. That’s what this whole avoidance and anger thing is about right? He told me you guys fooled around and he liked you, and that you seemed to like him too, and next I knew I walked in on you guys and you threw a _drawer_ at him— which by the way, what the _hell_ were you thinking?” 

Scott’s mouth opened once or twice like he was going to continue, then crossed his arms and left the conversation where he had.

So Scott… _didn’t_...know?

Jackson’s skin felt too hot all of a sudden, too tight. All of the aborted adrenalin left him feeling empty and exhausted, and he still had no fucking clue where this put him and Stiles. If Scott really didn’t know. 

Jackson ignored Scott’s last question, had practically ignored everything past ‘Stiles never showed me your texts.’ “That’s all he told you? that we fooled around?” 

“Yeah. He was unexpectedly tight-lipped about it, so whatever’s got that stick up your ass lodged so high is a non-issue, you douchebag.” 

The tension in him snapped, and Jackson slumped with relief. Something giddy churned in his stomach, and for the first time probably in the history of ever, he felt like hugging Scott or something. He didn’t know, he didn’t know at all. 

Scott rolled his eyes and moved to leave, but Jackson caught his shirt sleeve with his open hand. 

“Wait. If you’re here” —Jackson bit his lip and he couldn’t believe he was about to ask Scott this, but he needed to know— “If you’re here, does that mean he wants to get back together?” 

Jackson tried to keep the hope out of his voice, because if there was one person he didn’t want to hear him like that, it was McCall. 

Scott didn’t answer or even move at first, and then he lifted a hand to gently pry his shirt out of Jackson’s grip. Jackson’s hand fell away easily. 

“I searched you out on my own because I don’t like the idea of holding something, especially something that doesn’t even exist, over you, even if I really don’t like you much. But no, I doubt he wants to get back together after you nearly killed him with a drawer.” 

And just like that the relief was gone, but Jackson didn’t know why he’d think any different when it was Scott. If he wasn’t laughing with Stiles, he was being a fucking _hero_ and casting shawdows over Jackson. 

Scott walked away and Jackson let him. Shortly after Danny’s back by his side again, nervously shifting in a way that reminds him way too much of Stiles, even if he’s not drumming on something, and Jackson couldn’t do this. 

“You okay?” Danny asked, and Jackson shook his head no. 

He and Stiles were always going to be fucked up.

* * *

Without the fear of Scott telling looming over him, Jackson was back at square one. He wanted Stiles to punch him in the face, still did even when he thought Stiles was the kind of asshole who would spread intimate knowledge about him, but now that he didn’t have the anger fueling his desire to drop anything having to do with Stiles, he mostly felt drained. It didn’t matter how much Jackson wanted all of Stiles’ attention on him in a good way, because nothing had changed for Stiles since Scott told Jackson he didn’t know, and he was still shooting Jackson those awful looks. 

Jackson’s eyes flickered from the peas on his tray to Stiles again, and Scott frowned at him from over Stiles’ shoulder. He’d tried to limit how much he looked since he’d been caught one too many times openly staring, one time resulting in Scott actually telling Stiles apparently, because Stiles had immediately turned to glare. 

He was so fucking pathetic. Something supernatural must have infected him in some ridiculous disease, because there was no way in hell Jackson was this needy—he couldn’t be. He was rich, good at sports, and with a face like his he could have his pick of partners, but he wanted Stiles for some fucking stupid reason. 

“Have you ever fucked up bad on a misunderstanding and gotten back together after?” Jackson asked at his tray. 

There was a slight click that Jackson was pretty sure was Danny setting down his fork, and the slight pause in Lydia’s texting movements was all he needed to know she’d heard him. 

“I don’t think you should try and get back with Stiles,” Danny said quietly, and that was _not_ what he was looking to hear. 

Hot rage filled his stomach and Jackson jerked his head up to cooly glare at Danny just _daring_ him to keep going. The peas were mashed under his fork, and Danny flinched slightly. _Fuck_. What the hell was Jackson doing—this was his best friend. 

But his best friend knew Jackson well, so after the initial flinch Danny was mostly just determined. 

“You’ve been running hot and cold for a while now, Jackson, and you’re—you’re fucking _miserable_. Unless I know that this time would end up okay, I can’t support this. I’m not you but I honestly don’t think Stiles is what’s best for—” 

Jackson interrupted him by slamming his hands on the table, and hissed, “ _I_ know what’s best for me. Not David and Karen, not Stiles, and _definitely_ not you, so be my fucking best friend and help me out.” 

The look on Danny’s face wasn’t made like Jackson had been expecting, or hell even _wanted_ because he was keyed up to admit that a punch from Danny in the lunch room might be exactly what he needed. No, Danny was _pitying_ Jackson. 

“Fuck,” Jackson said through his teeth, and he flung himself as far back as he could without falling off the lunch bench. This was so messed up. _He_ was so messed up. And he didn’t know what to do to fix it. 

Jackson put his hands over his face and said, “Sorry,” before he could lose the nerve. It didn’t sound sincere with the amount of petulance bleeding into his voice, but if he didn’t have that he felt like he’d start crying in the fucking lunch room. 

“Hey,” Danny said softly, and there was a light touch at his shoulder, too light to be Danny’s hand. 

When he pulled his hands away from his face, Danny and Lydia shared a look, and Lydia removed her hand from Jackson. 

“You could do something nice,” Danny started. “Not like, a grand romantic gesture or anything if that’s too much, but something he’d really appreciate.” 

Jackson laughed humorlessly. “If I ever stand outside a house with a stereo, please shoot me in the face.” 

Danny and Lydia shared another look, and Jackson felt his earlier irritation creeping up his spine. 

“See a movie he likes?” Lydia offered with a shrug, and Jackson scoffed. That always worked for her because all they ever did was fuck and fight, but in a different way from he and Stiles. He didn’t think offering to see Star Trek or Wars or whatever would do anything for him. 

“You’ve had a date with him right?” Danny asked, and Jackson shrugged. It was a rhetorical question. “Do something he mentioned he might like.” 

“He was insecure and said things he liked doing with Scott.”

“So...do that?” 

Jackson’s mouth fell open and his eyes turned towards Stiles for a moment. Stupid shit and fast food in the woods? “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

* * *

**To McCall**

> Get stiles to go to that ugly rock just off the blue trail in the preserve at 8. The one that smells like animal piss

**To McCall**

> Alone

****  
  
From McCall  


> Why should I do anything for you? I’m not waiting for you to hurt him again.

**To McCall**

> Please. How desperate would I have to be to ask you

****  
  
From McCall  


> Pretty desperate. But that doesn’t really change my answer.

**To McCall**

> Please scott. Im begging here

**To McCall**

> Ill leave him alone if this doesnt work. Ill fucking never look at him ever again just please get him there tonight

****  
  
From McCall  


> Please don’t make me regret this.

* * *

This was the stupidest idea Jackson had ever let Danny talk him into, and they’d done some dumb shit as kids. Take out? In the woods? Stupid games with lacrosse games? He didn’t expect anything different from Scott and Stiles, but this was _Jackson_ and Stiles. 

It was 8:12pm and Jackson was by the piss rock with cooling takeout he didn’t have the desire to eat, hoping to God that Stiles would come. He better come. Another minute passed and the takeout bag crinkled under his fingers.

Jackson was about ready to call the whole thing a big L when he heard a stick break and a familiar heartbeat coming up the nearby trail, and the relief was instant. Scott had actually pulled through. 

“Alright, what did you call me here for…” Stiles said, and it’d been so long since Jackson had heard cheer in his voice, even the sarcastic kind, that he’d taken a step forward. But then Stiles was near enough to see Jackson standing by the piss rock and not Scott, and he trailed off. 

Stiles froze, his face half morphed between surprise and something ugly, and Jackson clenched the takeout bag harder. 

“No,” Stiles said cooly, and he turned around. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Jackson was up before Stiles could take a step, and he grabbed one of Stiles’ wrists. 

“Wait! I got your takeout and the lacrosse stuff and we can do that stupid fucking game or whatever.”

It came out angry. Everything Jackson ever said came out angry, and Stiles jerked his arm out of Jackson’s grip. He didn’t leave, but did actually turn towards Jackson, and Jackson could see every bit of fury in his face.

“Jackson whatever you think you’re doing, it ends now. You’re fucking awful to me and last time? If Scott hadn’t been there that drawer would have smashed my face into a million pieces, so excuse me for being pissed off. I don’t care how much you need it and I don’t care that you get off on pain and punishment, and I _especially_ don’t care about how much you hate yourself for it. You’ve fucked it over tough guy, so what’s it going to be now?” 

Stiles pushed his palm against Jackson’s sternum, and when Jackson didn’t answer, he asked again with another jab. 

Jackson’s heart was beating so hard in his chest, and he didn’t think he could breathe. This wasn’t supposed to be how this went at all, and Stiles was being such a. Such an _asshole_. His eyes started to prickle, and shifted his hand enough to dig his nails into his thigh because he won’t fucking _cry_ in front of Stiles—he didn’t deserve to see how much that hurt him. 

“What’s. It. Going. To. Be.” 

The retort was at the end of his tongue, the angry bitter feelings so close to escaping, but Jackson just swallowed and looked away as he felt wet tears spilling out of his eyes. He was so fucking humiliated, and he was pretty sure he was going to throw up if he had to look at Stiles one more time like this.

Stiles sighed exasperatedly, like he went to change a baby’s diaper and figured out just how much shit was in it, and Jackson angrily swiped at the tear tracks on his face. 

“No, don’t you fucking cry—you don’t _get_ to cry.” 

“What, you’ve got a monopoly on feelings now?” Jackson voice cracked as he said it, and the entire column of his throat shifted with the effort to keep himself from screaming, or sobbing like a little baby. He pushed his nails into his leg harder to keep from punching something. 

‘ _Or someone_ ,’ Jackson thought, when Stiles laughed something bitter and condescending. 

“A monopoly? No, you’d have to admit to having something other than anger, narcissism, and feelings about how poofy your hair is, but here’s the deal Jackson. No one cares about you Jackson, and lord knows why Danny sticks around because you can’t expect him to actually _like_ you, right? You don’t even like you.” 

Hell. Why should he keep himself from doing anything at all to a sick fuck who deserved it? Jackson’s fist connected with Stiles’ face with a satisfyingly hollow thunking sound. His vision was so blurry from the tears that he misjudged Stiles’ retaliation, and he got a knee in the crotch for his effort instead of the punch back like he was expecting.

Jackson went down to his hands and knees immediately, and his desperate gasps for air made it impossible to swallow down the bile rising in his throat from the pain. He retched, and he couldn’t even get a hand around his gut because Stiles dropped down and locked his elbows into a well placed hold; no matter how much he struggled he couldn’t do anything but bring his knees up to try and ease the ache. He hoped Stiles got puke on himself trying to keep Jackson down, at least. 

Jackson got in a few shuddering breaths without heaving and said, “You fucker,” his voice catching on the fricative, and Stiles apparently deemed that a sign of Jackson being well enough to continue, because he forced Jackson to roll over. He was nice enough to make sure they cleared a good distance from Jackson’s mess before Stiles settled over him and started grappling for control. 

He wasn’t able to lock Jackson’s elbows this time, and the pain in Jackson’s gut had lessened enough that Stiles couldn’t easily get him into that position again. Unless he grabbed his balls anyway, but Stiles didn’t try. 

Jackson rolled on top and threw an arm across Stiles’ throat with enough pressure to keep him from sucking in a breath. Instead of scowling or biting out some scathing remark, Stiles only blinked up blearily and put an unsteady hand on Jackson’s arm to try and roll them back over again, and Jackson went easily. 

This was embarrassing. Stiles was slower than Jackson had seen and his reactions were delayed—Jackson was pretty sure he gave him a concussion—and yet Jackson was underneath him more often than he was on top. 

Jackson stopped trying to shift Stiles off of him, and Stiles settled across Jackson’s hipbones. The heady warmth in his bones he hadn’t felt since before Scott had walked in on them made him feel limp, loose, and the hard, desperate look in Stiles’ eyes was back. 

Stiles carefully drew his fist back, his eyes staring deep in Jackson, and Jackson’s toes curled in his sneakers, his legs twitched underneath Stiles’ weight.

 _Oh fuck oh fuck oh_ —fuck. His cheek got caught between his teeth when Stiles’ fist connected, and his mouth tasted like blood, but his head was blissfully silent. His face throbbed with the slow, relaxed pace of his heart, and Jackson couldn’t help the stuttering moan that slipped out of his mouth at finally, _finally_ feeling this again. 

He hadn’t realized his eyes had slipped shut until they snapped open with Stiles’ insistent prodding at the bruise probably forming on his face. Stiles was giving him that _look_ again; his cheeks were flushed and his bottom lip was pulled into his mouth, but all Jackson could focus on were his eyes, hard and demanding and so fucking full of confidence that Jackson couldn’t bear to look away.

But he wasn’t doing fucking _anything_ but stare at Jackson, so Jackson lifted his hips up to grind into Stiles, and Stiles stilled him with a heavy hand against his chest. There was a darker look in Stiles’ eyes now, and Jackson’s breath rushed out all at once. 

“Turn over,” Stiles spat out, and he pushed off with the hand on Jackson’s chest to stand over him. “I can’t stand to look at your face right now.” 

It took a moment for Jackson to comprehend what Stiles was asking, and when he did he couldn’t make his limbs move; his bones felt so heavy and the punch coupled with the lingering pain from his nuts being kicked in took so much out of him. 

“I said turn over,” Stiles said, and he punctuated his words with a solid kick to Jackson’s side hard enough to spur him into action. He wanted so bad to be good enough for this, be good for Stiles, and the thought alone makes his stomach clench. He was going to fix this, he was going to be so good.

Jackson felt rather than saw Stiles drop down behind him, and Stiles pulled up on Jackson’s hips until Jackson got with the program and supported himself on his forearms and knees. He left his hands there, searing Jackson’s skin through his clothes with the heat of his palms, and Jackson was afraid that if Stiles let go he’d fall straight through the ground. 

“Can you get your pants off?” 

Jackson held his breath and took a moment to steady himself on one, shaking arm before reaching down to the button on his jeans. It went fine until Jackson brushed his hard-on, and all the shame since the first time hit him all at once. He gasped out on the edge of a sob. He had no excuse—it wasn’t the first time and he wasn’t drunk. He knew what he was doing and worse—he seeked it out, he seeked out this Dom/sub thing. The heat in his belly curled uncomfortably because he was so fucked up, being turned on by Stiles like this, and Jackson whimpered. He fucking wanted this—he wanted to be on his hands and knees and shaken up so badly because Stiles looked at him like _that_. 

“Jackson,” Stiles said, his voice hard, and Jackson snapped to attention. Why the hell did this feel so good to him? Why couldn’t he have been _normal_.

His arm dropped back down to hold himself up, and he knew he’d failed Stiles. “I can’t get them off,” he said quietly, and he barely kept himself from shaking in disappointment. 

Stiles made a noise of acknowledgement, but didn’t admonish him or anything, and Jackson settled a little more in his skin. One of Stiles’ hands let go of his hips to slide down to Jackson’s fly, but this time Jackson only felt content when Stiles brushed his cock. He shoved Jackson’s jeans and boxer briefs down to mid thigh without any warning, and paused. 

The silence and non-movement stretched on to an uncomfortable amount, and Jackson squirmed a little, accidentally knocking lose Stiles’ hands. Stiles didn’t do anything about it, didn’t put them back or make a noise or anything, and Jackson grit his teeth, feeling unsure and off kilter. _His_ ass and dick were the ones bared so it would be really fucking nice for Stiles to get with some sort of program. 

Jackson dropped his head down to look through his legs to figure out what the hell Stiles was doing, but he couldn’t see anything through his jeans and hard-on. He let out a harsh breath and rocked on his knees. 

“You finally seeing how much you resemble my asshole?” he said, but his voice had way too much air in it to carry the same poison Stiles’ had earlier. 

Stiles put a hand on Jackson’s hip, pushing up his sweater slightly, and that was all the warning Jackson got before Stiles slapped him hard on the ass, right in the crease where the meat met his thigh. 

“Did I tell you you could talk?” Stiles asked, and Jackson held his breath to keep from answering—he wasn’t an idiot, he could take a hint, and more than anything he just wanted to be so fucking good at this, good for Stiles. Stiles smoothed his thumb over the spot he’d hit as a reward for his silence, and the pressure and stinging skin mixed together in a way that went straight to his dick.

“I will start when I please,” Stiles said, and he released a barrage on Jackson’s other ass cheek. 

Jackson had to muffle his voice in his shoulder because Stiles still hadn’t told him he could speak. 

“And since you apparently need a lesson in patience,” Stiles said, smacking Jackson after every word. He paused then, and pulled his hand off of Jackson’s hip to brace himself when he leaned forward—so close Jackson could smell his axe, and feel the heat of him burning his back and his breath against his neck—and whispered, “you’re not allowed to come until I say you can.” 

Jackson bit his lip so hard he drew blood trying not to cry out at that. He’d never been harder in his life and fucking Stilinski was going to kill him. 

Stiles hands pressed hard against his back, so hard that Jackson’s arms shook with the effort of keeping himself and Stiles’ weight up, and he drug them across Jackson’s flesh as they made their way down to his ass. Stiles shifted away from him then, but left his hands on Jackson’s ass, and Jackson crushed the irritation bubbling up in him at Stiles taking his time. It was so much easier to be good when he could see his eyes. 

Stiles kneaded his ass a little, pinching and pulling at the newly sensitive skin until Jackson was actively pushing up for more. It was good, nothing worth coming over, but the heat built in his balls, and the leaves and sticks behind him rustled and crackled more and more the longer Stiles’ hands were against him. He didn’t figure out what Stiles was planning until Stiles had mostly stopped playing with him and he felt a hot single, shaky breath against his asshole. 

Stiles pulled him apart gently, and his lips or his tongue just barely brushed Jackson’s pubes—just enough that Jackson could tell how close he was. Jackson went still, barely controlled strength keeping him from pushing himself back into Stiles. He’d never had this before—saw it in porn once or twice but never...Jackson sucked in a breath. It wasn’t Lydia’s thing, but Stiles thought he was good enough for it. 

“Good boy,” Stiles whispered against his asshole, and Jackson whimpered into his arm. 

Stiles licked a wet stripe right between Jackson’s cheeks, and he barely caught himself before he swore. He still couldn’t talk and Stiles’ mouth was so hot. Fuck, he hadn’t known how good this would feel. 

“Good boy,” he repeated again, but hips lips were pressed so hard against Jackson that the sound came out garbled. But Jackson knew what he said, Jackson reveled in what he said. 

Stiles wrapped his arm around Jackson’s hips and hauled his ass closer to Stiles’ face, which was all well and good because Jackson’s arms couldn’t fucking support him anymore and he had a face full of dirt, but he didn’t care. Stiles was licking into him and making all these wet, slurpy noises and telling him what a good boy he was just taking Stiles’ tongue. Minutes, hours, Jackson didn’t know how long it’d been, or how much longer it would be. He could do this forever.

Stiles curled his tongue in deep, and Jackson felt his balls rise with a dawning sense of horror. His legs were shaking hard, hips only held up by Stiles, and the head of his dick kept sticking to Stiles’ arm; he wasn’t going to last much longer, but Stiles still hadn’t told him he could come. 

But just as he felt that edge of oblivion approach, Stiles pulled back with a shaky breath and Jackson pretty much collapsed onto the ground. There was a wet noise, like Stiles was licking his lips (fuck they were probably so swollen now, and Jackson had to stop himself from picturing it before he blew his load), and then louder than anything Jackson had heard before, the sound of a zipper being pulled broke through the air. 

“Back on your hands and knees,” Stiles said, voice so breathy and sure, but even through that Jackson could hear the steady slap of skin that meant Stiles was jerking himself off. 

Jackson’s body was so limp, so fucking loose and noodle-y he had to attempt more than once, but he got back on his hands and knees because he was a winner, and he was ready for the next _good boy_ that Stiles whispered against his skin. 

“I’m going to take my pleasure. Squeeze your legs together and don’t come.” 

Both hands came to steady Jackson’s hips as he moved his knees closer together, and he needed every bit of help Stiles gave. One of Stiles’ hands slid over to brush against Jackson’s sopping wet asshole, and Jackson bit off a moan. He was so fucking close to coming, and he was sure he had that ugly flush down his chest and back he had whenever he’d been forced to hold it in this long. 

Stiles choked off a groan as he slid between Jackson’s thighs, and, _fuck_ , Jackson had to reach back to grab at Stiles in order to steady himself. His fingers managed to grab onto one of Stiles belt loops, and he held onto that for dear life. 

Stiles thrusted shallowly, like he was testing out the pressure, and Jackson’s legs shuddered. He did it again with more force, and the head of his cock brushed Jackson’s aching balls and ran sensuously across the underside of his dick. Jackson tentatively flexed his thighs, and Stiles breath hitched in a way that made his cock swell impossibly more, and Jackson yanked on the belt loop harder. 

Stiles picked up speed, moaning loud and dirty, and Jackson let his head drop to the ground. 

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. The breathy noises Stiles was making were so hot and Jackson couldn’t stand it. Their hips slammed against each other over and over again, and Jackson couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if Stiles pulled away too far, if his dick slid up against his asshole Stiles had made so wet and messy. Jackson tore Stiles’ belt loop clear off on one particularly hard thrust, and Stiles’ breath started getting that needy, noisy edge that Jackson recognized. Stiles was close. Stiles was close and so was Jackson but only Stiles was allowed to come. 

Jackson bit his lip and pushed his thighs together as tight as he could because he was so good at being used, and Stiles went still. Cum splattered across Jackson’s thighs and his balls, and Jackson went limp with Stiles. Fuck it’d been too long since he’d done this. 

“Good. Good boy,” Stiles said against his back and Jackson swallowed deeply. 

He pulled back and put his mouth back on Jackson’s ass without a moment’s notice, sliding his hands up and down the inside of Jackson’s thighs. Jackson was pushing against Stiles mouth as hard as he could, begging for relief with his body because he wasn’t allowed to talk, and he needed it, he needed it so fucking bad. 

And just when he thought he was going to get it, Stiles pulled away again. Jackson’s chest heaved with the effort of keeping quiet, keeping still, and his face was pressed hard into his elbow. He’d started losing himself again halfway through and there was a steady trail of drool down his skin and pooling on the dirt underneath. 

“J-Jerk yourself off, Jackson,” Stiles said, and he sounded just as wrecked as Jackson felt. “Ten strokes and you can come.” 

Jackson reached back to grab at any part of Stiles he could to say _thanks_ as best he could without talking, and found his hand. He could come finally, but ten strokes? 

“You don’t think you can do it?” Stiles asked, and he gently pulled his hand out from under Jackson’s. 

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut. It’s the wrong answer and he knew it was, but he shook his head no anyway. He’s so keyed up, so hard—there was no way in hell he could make ten strokes. 

“Then it’s fifteen now,” Stiles said, and Jackson sobbed into his arm, but put his hand gingerly on his dick. 

He stroked lightly once, twice, and then Stiles groaned frustratedly and shifted forward to wrap his hand around Jackson’s. 

“Those don’t count and you know it. Now we’ll do it together.” 

Stiles forced Jackson’s grip tight, and it was too much all at once—Jackson threw his head back and gasped, but just barely managed to catch himself in time. He didn’t come, and he was almost in awe of himself. Stiles pressed a kiss into Jackson’s neck. 

“Good boy,” he said, and Jackson’s eyes fell shut. 

One. Two. Three. They pulled at his dick together. Jackson paused a moment, and Stiles let him take it. 

Four. Five. His hips stuttered, but he still didn't come. 

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. He was proud of that stretch, but he had to stop again because it got to be too much and he needed to do this right, wanted to do it right for Stiles. 

Ten. Eleven. Twel— _fuck_. 

“Stiles, I’m gonna—” he gasped out desperately, and he still wasn’t allowed to talk and he was going to come early and Jesus he fucked up again—but then pain raced out of his crotch and pooled in his stomach and Stiles released his harsh hold of Jackson’s oversensitized balls to join Jackson’s hand around his dick again. 

“Continue,” Stiles said, and Jackson sobbed with relief that he wasn’t being punished with more strokes for his transgression. 

He jerked himself off quickly, and halfway down the sixteenth stroke he was coming harder than he’d ever come. Pleasure ran down his back and he knew he was making a fucking disgusting mess of himself, but he didn’t care. This was so good and _he_ was good. 

When the shakes stopped wracking his body Jackson was on his back with a stick jabbing his spine, and his head pillowed on Stiles’ chest. Stiles’ fingers carded softly through his hair, and Jackson stared up at the sky, though it was nothing but darkness since the cloud cover was thick enough to block out the light from the moon and stars.

He didn’t say anything for a good while—he was too afraid of messing something up like he usually did and it felt too nice having Stiles there with him. This is what he was, what he did. He liked this, and he liked Stiles. It seemed simple then, when it was just the two of them.

Their jizz had long started to dry on Jackson’s thighs and hand by the time Stiles sighed and shifted Jackson over to stand back up, and Jackson was ashamed to admit that he’d nearly whined at the loss. Have some really good sex and apparently Jackson became needy, what a joke, but Stiles seemed to like it or whatever. If that was what a Dom meant anyway. 

Jackson caught his wrist as Stiles was pulling up his pants, and held him still. Stiles looked down at him, as exhausted as Jackson felt, and his face was turning a deep purple. It’d been the first time Jackson had looked at his face since he told him to turn over, and Jackson swallowed audibly to keep himself from saying something overly mushy because Jackson didn't _do_ mushy. 

“You don’t want to stop this either,” Jackson said quietly, and something changed in Stiles’ eyes—they looked less harsh maybe, but Jackson didn’t know him well enough to know exactly what it meant. 

Stiles jerked his arm away, and Jackson’s gaze turned up at the sky again. So much for that. 

The leaves crunched under Stiles’ feet as he walked away, but they didn't get softer, just suddenly stopped. A pause then—Stiles stopped still close by, and Jackson didn’t let himself hope. 

“I’ll call you on Sunday,” Stiles said, and for the first time in weeks Jackson felt smug.

**Author's Note:**

> The porn in this is a throwback to the very first fic in the series, and from now on the rest of the fics are back to being the smutty related one shots this series was supposed to be haha. (Which may disappoint some of you sorry)
> 
> It has been 3 days since I posted this and I regret not including Jackson angrily eating take out (or those healthy option apple slices) at Stiles a la s1 Jackson in the lunchroom with the apple I am sorry I have failed you.


End file.
